


Revenge

by Archangel06



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Homophobia, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, I honestly don't know what happened with this, I'm not entirely convinced of it but I've been sitting on this for too long and I need opinions, M/M, PTSD, graphic description of violence, it was supposed to be something else entirely I swear, there's some smut but it's not the main focus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-19 08:15:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29996493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archangel06/pseuds/Archangel06
Summary: Migs Mayfeld has seemingly fallen from the face of the galaxy, after Morak. He is "dead".That is, until one day he appears in Marshal Dune's office in Nevarro, rising from his grave of anonimity like a tormented spirit, with a camtono full of silicax oxalate: he wants to hire Mando to hunt down nine ex- Imps, that apparently tortured him and another man named Irian Padek.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Cobb Vanth, Din Djarin/Migs Mayfeld, Migs Mayfeld/Original Character(s)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 24





	1. Amor, ch'al cor gentil ratto s'apprende/ prese costui de la bella persona/ che mi fu tolta: e 'l modo ancor m'offende

Marshal Cara Dune was compiling some boring paperwork while the printer chirped and buzzed as it spat out the latest wanted posts. It was the worst part of her job as a Republic Marshal, but she did get throw hands around on the regular with criminals. It was a good gig, she was well respected and liked, and it was, all in all, a fun job with minor boring parts. There were worse things than paperwork, she thought, as she signed the request form. _Say what you want about the inefficiency of the Republic bureaucracy, but they cover the cost of kaf for their Marshals’ offices,_ she thought gratefully as she sipped her cup _._ Which was only smart, because everyone knew that Marshals, especially on the farthest reaches, were fuelled only by kaf, spite and bad intentions. 

The door opened, and she automatically moved her gaze to see who was entering, while her hand went to the blaster- and she damn near drew and shot when she saw who was there.

“… Mayfeld” she said coldly, and indeed, the ex-Imp was standing there in her doorway, with a heavy camtono in his hand and a shit-eating grin that made her want to slam his head against a wall.

She squinted, suspiciously. It was him, no two ways about it, but there was _something_ different about him- she couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but he wasn’t the same Inmate 34667 that had slumped shoulders and talked as if he was trying to goad everyone into killing him. He carried himself with a straight back and a sort of relaxed swagger that communicated cold competence rather than brash cockiness. Was it the fact that he was armed? He had four blasters attached to a harness strapped to his body… but no. His eyes, she decided. There was something in his eyes that sent a chill down her spine, and she had seen some shit.

A pain that had been melted into the crucible of white-hot rage to become a cold, hard, sharp blade of hatred- she had seen that, during the Rebellion. People who had lost everything at the hands of the Empire had had that kind of look, but that wasn’t the scary thing, oh no. What was different, and scary, about Mayfeld, was that his hatred was focused on something very specific. She never thought that Mayfeld was a man that one didn’t want to get on the wrong side of, but maybe she had been wrong: anyone who had that kind of coldness in their eyes was someone not to be trifled with.

“Hello, Marshal Dune. Always charming” he quipped, with that grin that again made Cara want to slam him on the head with the butt of her heavy blaster. Repeatedly.

“I seem to recall that you were dead” she said, her hand not leaving the butt of the blaster. What reason could Migs Mayfeld possibly have to pop up in Nevarro and come looking for her? “If you are in trouble, I ain’t saving your ass” she growled.

“Oh no, I wouldn’t say that I am in trouble. Dead people don’t get in trouble. Dead people rise from the grave as vengeful ghosts, and that’s why I’m here. Revenge.”

There was silence for a moment.

“If you think that having a duel at high noon with me will work for you, Mayfeld, you’re in for a nasty surprise.”

Mayfeld actually laughed, and that made Cara’s wish to acquaint his face with a heavy, blunt object even more acute. Possibly one with lots of sharp and hard corners. A nice rock, maybe. The corner of the desk would do admirably, too.

“I don’t give two bantha’s ticks about _you_. You only have done me good- even though most people wouldn’t call forcing me to infiltrate a fucking Imperial outpost with a crazed Mandalorian “good”. But thanks to you taking me out of prison, I had the immense pleasure of killing one Valin Hess with my own hands and blowing up that shithole from the maps. And now, I can go searching the other nine bastards on my list.”

Cara relaxed, _fractionally_.

“And what does that have anything to do with me?” she asked, still suspicious.

“Nothing.” He seemed sincere enough. “Or rather” he amended “I only need you to find Mando- _the_ Mando, not the one with the green and red armour. He’s the best hunter of the Galaxy and I want to hire him.”

Well, _that_ was a surprise.

“Come in” said Cara. “Close the door, and keep your hands where I can see them.”

***

“Well, kicking some Imp’s arses is a reason I can always get behind” said Marshal Dune, finally relaxing- not completely, noticed Migs, but he didn’t care.

“Glad that you see it the same way I do” answered Migs. He had obviously given an extremely abridged version of the whole story, that amounted basically to “I’m looking for nine ex-Imps that did me very, very dirty”. No mention of what “dirty” they had done to him. To Irian. All the suffering, the pain, the very dark place he had been in and he still partially was in… they didn’t have the kind of relationship where he could tell her.

“They don’t just owe you sabacc money, do they? Because the Guild doesn’t deal with personal vendettas and petty high school rivalries, you know. It deals with actual criminals.” She eyed him critically.

“No. What they did is on par with kidnapping Mando’s baby, in terms of gravity.”

“You’re not the law enforcer here, Mayfeld. That would be up to me to judge.”

Migs grimaced. He hadn’t wanted to tell her, but that woman was stubbornness personified when she wanted to, and she wouldn’t help if he didn’t give her something more substantial to work with. Well, he guessed, he couldn’t blame her for not trusting him.

“Torture” he said. “Tortured me and… another man, named Irian Padek. Is that enough, or do I have to go into detail?”

She frowned. “No need, thanks- I know what Imps are capable of… all right, you have convinced me that your cause is worthwhile. There’s only a little problem in your plan” she said, and Migs grinned.

“I know, Mando is expensive. But I can pay for his services.” He patted the camton. “See this bad boy? Full of silicax oxalate crystals. Don’t ask how and why I got these because I ain’t telling.”

Cara bristled. She didn’t like hearing Mayfeld talking about her friend as if he was some kind of gigolo- he was a stalwart warrior, member of a proud warrior race, a devoted father, husband and friend, not some spice addict that sold their body for drugs. She was probably imagining it, she admitted with herself. That Mayfeld guy annoyed her ten ways to Sunday, and she was probably reading things into it- but stars that guy rubbed her all the wrong ways. It was probably that shit-eating grin, that sheer willingness to be annoying…

“Well, you could definitely afford him… if he hadn’t left the Guild for good one year and a half ago.” Cara leaned back on her chair, savouring the pettiness of dropping that particular truth bomb. 

“Dank farrik” growled Migs. He felt his temper rising. Seven years he had waited. Seven long, long years. And now Mando had the ill grace of _retiring_? “What do you mean, left the Guild? The guy is a war machine, he can’t have retired.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say retired, exactly. More like on extended sick leave and marital leave. He’s not the only competent hunter of the Guild though, with all this silicax you could hire ten very good hunters.”

“It’s Mando or nothing. He’s the best, and I want someone who understands how things are when it gets personal. Where is he now? Can you send him a message?”

“I’m not going to tell you where he is, but yes, I can send him a message. I warn you though- if he says no, I expect you to disappear promptly and not bother him any further, or you will have something much bigger to worry about than nine ex-Imps, that I can promise to you.”

Migs looked extremely belligerent, but finally spat a “ok, then.” No matter how angry he was, how much he cordially detested Marshal Cara Dune (and grudgingly respected her, because she was one tough cookie), he knew that she was not to be trifled with, and that she did not threat in vain. He stood again, grabbing the camtono. “I’m staying at the Terrace” he added, referring to one of the many inns of Nevarro. “When Mando answers, send me a message there. Tell him that he has a week to answer, after that I’ll be gone.” He stalked out of the door, leaving Cara to wonder if she should involve Din in all this. The stars knew that the man had gone through enough trouble for a lifetime… but Din would have been upset if he discovered that he had hidden something like that from him, so with a sigh she reached towards her holocomm.

***

It was evening in Mos Pelgo. Din was repairing the straps on Cobb’s armour, while his husband was doing the dishes.

It still made him smile like a moonstruck teenager to think that he and Cobb were actually married. Cobb wasn’t the type of person he thought he’d end up marrying, but he didn’t care. Cobb was honest and brave, devoted and kind- no one could be better than him. Life on Tatooine was probably an equal mix of boring and dangerous for most people- but for Din, it had become domestic. Quiet. Peaceful. All the things that his life had never been. And he had Cobb and these little moments of domesticity where Cobb was washing the dishes and he was doing some minor repair. Cobb had gently worked his way past all his shields, both physical and mental, and now… now he held Din’s heart in his hands. 

The holocomm pinged and started blinking yellow, sign that a new message had arrived.

“Uh? Who the hell can it be at this hour?” wondered Cobb, and Din had to agree- it was late, and they hadn’t been expecting any messages. “Din, be a darlin’ and get the comm, will you? My hands are all soapy.”

He rose from the table, and went to the small holocomm station: a couple of buttons later, he discovered that the message came from Cara. Ah, that explained it, he thought: Cara had to work strange hours on Nevarro, and she sent messages when she could. He pushed another button, and the face of Marshal Dune popped up. She was frowning.

 _“Hi Din. I hope everything it’s ok on Tatooine. Listen… I didn’t want to disturb you, but something strange happened. Migs Mayfeld popped up like fifteen minutes ago, with a camtono full of silicax oxalate and a story about how he wanted to hire you to hunt down nine ex-Imps who apparently tortured him and another bloke name Irian Padek that I could find nothing about- although admittedly I only did a cursory research. Damn, I wish I was making this shit up! He didn’t tell me what they did to him, but I can tell that it was bad. Nobody goes out of their way to hire the best hunter in the Galaxy over a petty high school rivalry, so it really must have been torture, or something of the sort… He was adamant that he wanted to hire you, and nobody else- he said it’s because you know how things are when it gets personal. I mean, he has a point, what with the whole Morak and Moff Gideon affair… but he looked weird, Din. Like a man that has nothing left to lose. I haven’t told him where you are of course, just that you abandoned the Guild and that I’d pass a message along. He said that you have a week to give him an answer: after that, he’ll disappear and won’t bother you again.”_ She paused _. “Well, that pretty much sums it up, I guess. He’s still here on Nevarro, waiting for an answer. I told him that if you said no, that was it and if he bothered you, he’d have to deal with me. Think about it, and let me know what you want to do. Oh, and say hello to Cobb from me and that next time I visit we can have a rematch at the shooting range, and that I still want to learn that knife trick. Cara out.”_

Din found himself staring at the holocomm, his mouth hanging open. Of all the messages he had expected, this was _not_ one of them. He had expected a general message, where she invited them both to visit her in Nevarro, asked them for updates and told them about the most recent news. He hadn’t been expecting for Migs Mayfeld of all people to pop up again- the man seemed to be like a weed in Din’s life, once there, extirpation was damn near impossible.

“Din, darlin’… is everything all right?”

Cobb’s kind voice shook him from his reverie.

“Yes. I’m just… shocked. I wasn’t expecting anything like this.” Din rubbed a hand on his mouth, perplexed. “Migs Mayfeld… I really thought that I would never see him again. He was a free man- well, more or less. I had no idea that he had a grudge to settle… but… admittedly, I don’t know much about him. I know that he was a sharpshooter in the Imperial Army, and that he survived Operation: Cinder on Burnin Konn, but that’s about it- our meetings weren’t exactly conductive to knowing each other.”

“I guess not.” Cobb came behind him, and gently put his hands on his shoulders. “What do you think about it?”

“I… don’t know, honestly. I’m thinking a thousand things all at the same times- is all this really about revenge, is he trying to get back to me or something, did they really torture him? Because if they did, then I would hunt them down happily. I still think that I owe him one from Morak, but… it’s nine people. If I accepted, I’d be taken far from you for a long time. But he’s paying, with a _full_ camton of silicax and that would pay for a good amount of stuff here in Mos Pelgo. We could get a teaching droid for the school and stuff for the infirmary. New vaporators…” Din turned, and let himself lean into his husband’s hug. It was such a blessing, to be able to trust someone else’s strength.

“But you, what do _you_ want to do?” murmured Cobb, gently petting those wild, brown curls and cradling his man.

“I… don’t know. I want to go- it… it feels like what I did for my covert. I went out and about and earned money and provided for them. But on the other hand, Mos Pelgo doesn’t need that- Mos Pelgo needs someone here, not out there. I don’t know. And… I can’t go without hearing your opinion. You are my husband.”

“Well, I don’t think that Cara is expecting an answer straight away, and she said that this Mayfeld will wait for a week” murmured Cobb, gently kissing Din’s forehead. There were moments in which he was particularly happy of the couple of inches he had on his husband, and this was one of those moments. “Let us go to bed, mh? We can mull this over tomorrow. We had a long day.”

***

Migs was sitting alone in his room at the Terrace Inn, perfectly still and relaxed as only a perching sniper could be. His mind shared that particular stillness- again, fruit of the training as a sniper. He had a piece of paper lying flat on his leg, with his hand on top of it. He could recite the ten names scribbled on it without even thinking- they were written in his ravaged skin, carved deep in his devastated body by days and months and years of pain. After every panic attack, after every nightmare, he recited them as an oath of vengeance, as a promise of retribution, as a curse. They would _pay_ , and _pay_ and _pay_ , with interests. One name had been already stricken through- Valin Hess. Only nine remained.

He wondered what Mando would answer to his request. He didn’t know him well enough to know if he would do anything for him- they were barely acquainted. But he had seen his face, so soft and tender and worried, scared for his beloved son… and he had glimpsed the lengths to which he would go for someone he loved.

Would he respect the lengths Migs would go to for someone he loved, his desire for revenge?

Irian… Irian. That name was the one that was carved the deepest of them all. That name was carved in his heart, in his bones, and it would stay there forever. That name hadn’t been carved by others, Migs himself had, and it hadn’t been carved by pain, but by love. Irian, his adventurous blond pilot who was so tender with him and so hungry for life with his contagious smile. He wanted to abandon the Army, take Migs with him on the Outer Rim and they would have a mechanic shop and adopt many children together, teach them to shoot with a blaster and to race speeders… but fate had had other plans, and one single, fateful day had changed everything.

Again, he recited the nine remaining names, whispering them in the darkening room.

“Nokk Vonden, private. Jinn Alia, private. Ridda Ester, private…” he went through the list, one name at a time, precisely, methodically, with no hesitation: for him, it was akin to maintaining and cleaning his rifle. It was an integral part of life, one of those habits so ingrained in his very bones that he could do it without even thinking about it.

He left the last three names, the most important ones, for last. “Kuna Russ, lieutenant. Kann Viggan, private. Ien Vert, sergeant.” Those three. Those three were the ones that he hated the most. More than Valin Hess, and that was saying something. With Valin Hess it hadn’t been so… personal. Valin Hess hadn’t purposefully targeted Irian or Migs, like the other three had. Valin Hess hadn’t purposefully tried to dehumanise them. To him, they were distant. Faceless. Replaceable. To him, they were but ants, and his actions hadn’t been dictated by a personal hatred. The other three… he knew their hands on him and on Irian. They had violated their bodies and tried to destroy their souls, they had stared at _him_ and _Irian_ with contempt for who they were. Valin Hess… he had probably stared contemptuously from the ship, feeling high and mighty and righteous, thinking that all of them were beneath him, not just Irian and Migs in particular.

Russ, Viggan and Vert, along with the other six, had judged. And so, Migs would judge _them_.

He waited, patiently, as only a sharpshooter who laid in ambush could- alone, with only the ghosts of the past as company.


	2. Amor, ch'a nullo amato amar perdona/ mi prese di costui piacer si forte/ che come vedi ancor non m'abbandona

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We… we never got the chance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: this is the chapter with the explicit description of violence and torture.

Dawn rose on Mos Pelgo as it always did- the twin suns chased away the cold night in a blazing triumph of purple, red, pink and gold, announcing yet another hot and dry day. As usual, Din was the first to wake: he welcomed the chance to be able to put his sleep-addled thoughts in order for the day as he went through the methodical ritual of preparing breakfast.

Naturally, at the forefront of his mind was last night’s message from Cara. He was torn. On the one hand he didn’t want to go, he didn’t want to see Mayfeld and be reminded of everything that had happened. He didn’t want to abandon Mos Pelgo and Cobb. But _should_ he? That camton full of silicax could mean so much for a small, poor village such as Mos Pelgo… if he did take the bounty, he could provide for Mos Pelgo like he did for his covert. The children in Mos Pelgo could get better things. But… Mos Pelgo didn’t _need_ it as his covert did. What Mos Pelgo needed was a strong presence that could protect it from raiders and wannabe slavers. Was he using it as an excuse to go kicking his heels around a bit? Well… a little bit, he admitted. It was still strange sometimes not to hear the vibrations of the Razor Crest, to wake up in a large, comfy bed instead of a hard and cold sleeping pod, the thrill of the hunt- he had felt so alive with adrenaline…

But now he had Cobb that made him feel alive.

He sighed as he put the kaf on. He wanted to go, mainly because he was curious. What kind of man was Mayfeld- who had he been, who had he become? What kind of hatred was pushing him? Din had worked for the Guild for a very long time, and he knew that Migs was doing a very strange thing. A client could pay a big sum for one, maybe two targets at most- it had happened to Din. But no one paid a really big sum upfront for nine targets. What had happened to him? Who was this Irian Padek that he wanted to avenge, and why he wanted to avenge him? He frowned, as the vaguest hint of a memory tantalised him from the edges of his mind- try as he might, he couldn’t make it surface.

The noise of Cobb waking up distracted him from this train of thought: a few seconds later, the man himself stepped into the small kitchen, stretching and yawning.

Din smiled helplessly as Cobb hugged him from behind and kissed him on the cheek. “Morning, darlin’” he said, his voice still hoarse with sleep.

“And a good morning to you” answered Din, leaning into the hug.

“I could hear the cogs in your head working from the bedroom” chuckled Cobb. “If you start thinking any harder, you’ll have smoke coming out of your ears. What’s going on in this beautiful noggin of yours?”

Din sighed.

“Well…” he started, as they sat down at the table “I was thinking about Cara’s message. I must admit… I want to go. At least to talk to Mayfeld, and see what kind of person he has become, or is. I keep thinking about logical reasons to go… but the truth is just that I am curious. Very curious.”

Cobb emitted an unhappy grunt. “I really don’t want you to go.”

“I know. And you are my husband, and that’s why I won’t go unless and before we have discussed it at length and we both are on the same page.”

“I guess that you could at least go and satisfy your curiosity” sighed Cobb. “But I don’t want you to go. Hunting is a dangerous business, and… I don’t want to lose you.”

Din took his husband’s hand in his own. “I know. But… I think I owe him. It was Cara’s decision to let him go, not mine. He helped me get Grogu. I owe him, and honour debts are a very serious thing, for Mandalorians.”

“I bet they are” sighed Cobb, capturing his husband’s wrist and caressing it with his thumb.

“I would ask you to come with me, but I know that you won’t” murmured Din.

“Just… be careful, please. Will you?” begged Cobb.

“I promise. I want to come back to you, and I will- I will always come back to you.”

Cara Dune found a holo not much later, from Din. The man still kept his helmet on.

_“Hi Cara. Tell Mayfeld that… that I’ll be there in three days to talk to him. I am not accepting yet, I want to talk to him first, and to you, too. Cobb says hello, and that he can’t wait to flatten you at the range. See you in three days. Din out.”_

***

Cara, exactly like Cobb, hadn’t been happy about this decision, but had been much, much more vocal about it.

“Din, I know that he did a good thing back on Morak, but I don’t trust him. He’s desperate. I’ve seen people like him, he’s completely consumed by his need for revenge. If he thinks that you are standing between him and his target, he’ll shoot you in the back! The Maker knows what he's done until now, how did he manage to get the full camton of silicax oxalate? I bet that he didn't just find it on the road!”

“Cara, I want to hear his story first. I’m just curious, I’m not obligated to say yes or no. And… I think I owe him, really. He helped me save Grogu-”

“Only because we forced him to!”

“Listen, Cara… I know that you are looking out for me, and I appreciate that. I do, really. But I will at least listen what he has to say- I feel indebted to him and honour debts are a serious thing, for Mandalorians.”

“Oh, the stars save us from stupid stubborn Mandalorians!” groaned Cara, throwing her hands up. “All right, do as you wish. But know that I will take a particular pleasure in saying “I told you”!”

And so, he found himself sitting in Mayfeld’s room at the Terrace Inn, exchanging measuring glances with the sharpshooter- indeed, there was something different in him. Cara’s description had been accurate: the eyes were cold in a way that bode very, very ill.

“I didn’t think that you would come” offered Mayfeld as an opening, sitting backward on a chair with his arms on its back.

“I wasn’t so sure myself. And I haven’t accepted, yet. I want to know a few more things, before I commit” answered Din.

“Oh, you got scruples all of a sudden? Didn’t have many of those, on the Bothan Five…” said Mayfeld, but there was no venom in his words.

“If I didn’t have any, I would have assassinated all of you instead of locking you all in a cell.”

“Fair enough” conceded Migs. “I guess I should be grateful for that. Well… what do you want to know?”

“Who are these people you are targeting, and why are you targeting them? Who is this Irian Padek you mentioned to Cara? She said that she couldn’t find anything about him.”

“Urgh. So basically, you want to know everything… isn’t the policy of the Guild not to ask questions?” retorted Mayfeld, raising his eyebrow.

“Ah, but I am not part of the Guild anymore. I am an independent, I make my own rules, and my rules say that I need to know what I’m getting myself into, especially if the pay seems too good to be true. Not to mention, you don’t have a lawful bounty. If I do accept to help you, I’m risking my neck alongside with yours. From what I gather, you are after some small fish that the Republic doesn’t give two figs about. We might end with charges of kidnapping at best and first-degree murder at worst. I don’t have only myself to think about- I have a husband and a home to protect.”

Migs sighed and pinched his nose with a grimace. “All right. Point taken. But open your ears very wide because I’m telling it only once. I warn you, it’s an extremely unpleasant and gruesome story, and I’ve never told it to anyone. I might have a panic attack while telling it, and if I do, I won’t be able to go on.”

He stood up, and handed Din a scrap of paper with ten names scribbled on it. “Here. Look at these names” he said, before starting to pace. “These are all the names of the actors of the great tragedy of my life, and as it’s proper of a great tragic protagonist, I want them all dead.”

Din looked down. His heart squeezed- that was a hitman’s list. The first name had been stricken through.

_~~Valin Hess~~ _

_Kuna Russ_

_Nokk Vonden_

_Jinn Alia_

_Ridda Ester_

_ Kann Viggan  _

_Eddi Millan_

_Joey Loger_

_Willi Hannet_

_ Ien Vert _

For some reason, the names had been separated into four different groups: Valin Hess and Kuna Russ made two of those groups, while the other two collected five and three names respectively. In both the second and third group there was a name that had been underscored.

“They might be all dead already” cautioned Din. “They _were_ Imperial soldiers, and during the days of the Rebellion the casualties were astronomical, especially towards the tail end of it. If they happened to be on one of the Death Stars, there’s no way in hell that they survived.”

Mayfeld made a face. “Yeah- I thought about that, although I know that they were all alive at the time of Burnin Konn. The events that I’m going to tell you about happened some six months before the destruction of the second Death Star, so about eight months before Operation: Cinder, and I know that by then they were still all alive. Whether they died after that, I do not know, but I _need_ to. I can’t let it go on the basis that they might be dead. They might, they might not. If they are still alive…” he left the threat hang, unsaid.

“So… one year prior the destruction of the second Death Star I was stationed on Ord Mantell. I met Irian there, Irian Padek- he was a pilot, and as stupid as it may sound, we fell in love almost immediately. He was…” Mayfeld closed his eyes. “He was so full of life. He was like a bright flame, and he ignited everyone next to him. I loved him, so, so much.” He stopped, gritting his teeth and again pinching the bridge of his nose- it was painfully obvious that he was trying not to burst into tears. He took a deep, sobbing breath, and seemed to calm down.

“We wanted to marry, open a mechanic shop and adopt lots of children. It probably sounds stupid to you, since by the time of Burnin Konn we had known each other for barely more than one year, but… well, I don’t care. Before meeting him, I never believed in true love. We would have to abandon the Army, but that was ok to us. Same sex relationships weren’t very well regarded in the Imperial army, even if there was quite a bit of soldier’s comfort going around- you were cheating the Empire of babies and future soldiers. Scratch that, it could become an unofficial death sentence if the wrong person pinched you.” He stopped with a shiver, remembering why they had ended up in Burnin Konn in the first place. “Well, they wouldn’t _kill_ you directly, but… everyone would rush to prove that they didn’t condone it. You would have _accidents_. Stuff that got recorded at the infirmary as “fell from the stairs”, or “cooking accident during kitchen duty”. Some actually _did_ die from… the accidents. And then you got sent to the worst outposts. That’s why we got both sent to Burnin Konn. We got caught.” A shiver went through him.

“Sounds like your _riduur_ was a brave one, and you too” observed Mando, mildly. “You honoured him by killing Hess. _Gar cuyir skira_ , yours is the revenge.”

“Well… we got pinched by an officer of the wrong kind- Lieutenant Kuna Russ, he was called. See his name on the list? Nosy bastard. I think… I think that he followed us. We hadn’t seen each other for a while because of various missions, maybe we were incautious. I don’t know. He put us under arrest for “gross indecency”, and we were put to menial labour for two weeks, as a punishment. It was basically giving everyone a free pass to bully us. Some of it- most of it, thankfully- was annoying, petty and humiliating, but innocuous. Stuff like overthrowing your bucket when you mopped floors, or stuffing you in a trash can, pushing you into a latrine. Nothing really life threatening, and we still had each other. But then… it escalated.” Why the hell was he giving all these details? It was as if his mouth was running independently from his brain. He took a deep breath: thinking about what happened next always made him nauseous.

“One evening, Irian didn’t come back to his cell. I was in a downright panic, I tell you. The jailor was actually a very nice man- he confided to us that he didn’t agree with the Imperial policy, and had arranged a few escapes, a couple of times. When there was no danger, he opened our cells and allowed us to sleep together. He was the one who told me that Irian was in the hospital bay. An accident, they told him. He came back a few nights later… his back was completely devastated. They had taken a knife to it, and slashed it to ribbons. For fun, he told me.” He inhaled deeply, trying to fight back the nausea.

“Thirty cuts. I counted them, and I couldn’t bear to count the stitches. You can imagine the insults they hurled at him. I promised him that night that we would defect as soon as we had the chance, as soon as he was strong enough. That we would go on the outer rim and would be happy and forget it all, heck, even in the unknown sectors if it meant escaping the reach of the Empire.” Migs took another deep breath. His hands were shaking and he was sweating profusely. He wanted desperately Mando to understand, how horrible it had been that night, and the following nights and days- how he couldn’t even hold Irian, because that caused him pain. How he had wanted to kiss every single inch of his ravaged back, and he couldn’t, because that would cause him pain. How the bright, dancing flame of his soul had been diminished, and how that had hurt him almost more than seeing the cuts. It was… _sacrilegious_. But that seemed to be too private, too intimate, too much.

“We… we never got the chance.”

Crap… it was getting more and more difficult to get the words out the more he went on with the story. But he pressed on. He needed to get it out of his system- no matter how much he had tried to fool himself into thinking that he only was telling Mando because it was a condition to get his help, now that he had started, he couldn’t stop. It was as if a dam had broken in him, and Mando was there, a friendly ear in which to pour everything. 

“A few days later it was my turn- the rumour had spread like wildfire through the camp, and the perpetrators were only given a slap on the wrist. I guess that this emboldened the others. I was in the camp kitchen, peeling vegetables. One of the cook assistants hit my hand and made me drop the knife. I didn’t react- doing so would only invite retribution, and I wanted to survive. You would have probably fought- I never said I’m a brave man. But I only wanted to survive, take Irian and go far, far away and forget everything.”

“That doesn’t make you a coward” said Mando, gently. “You had an entire camp against you and the duty to protect your wounded _riduur_ \- you were biding your time.”

Migs shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe I should have just carried him on my back- I keep telling myself that he was still too weak, that his wounds would have reopened if we tried to run, that they would become infected. That we were too close to the Core to be able to escape... but maybe I should have tried anyway. Maybe we would have both died quickly, and it would have been better, instead of everything else. Be as it may… I tried to retrieve the knife so that I could just go on with my work, and he screamed that I wanted to attack him. Thinking about it, I realise that it was a set-up. They wanted an excuse to beat me, and they found it. They kicked and punched me to the ground- there was five of them, and I was terrified, Mando. I was afraid that they would kill me, and they would kill Irian.”

A pause- he sat back on the chair because his legs didn’t feel strong enough to support him.

“The cook said something about purification with fire, they all agreed, jeering. I wasn’t a person to them anymore- I was a useless piece of trash, to abuse as they saw fit. I was laying on the ground with my eyes closed, hoping that it would just… end. And then… they poured boiling oil on me.” He curled on himself, his hands grabbing his shirt convulsively over the left side of his body.

Mando emitted a shocked grunt. “Boiling…” he whispered, his eyes going unwittingly towards Migs’ chest. That must have left a really bad scar, but Migs’ face and hands were unmarred: it must be on his chest or his legs- probably the chest, judging from how he was clenching the cloth on the left side of his body.

“Yeah. Boiling. It hurt. Beyond anything I can express with words. It was pain, distillated and concentrated, and then… it stopped hurting. The burn was so bad, that it compromised the nerves on a very big area. It took me months to recuperate, and more skin grafts and bacta applications than I care to remember- the nerves were beyond salvaging, though. I have completely lost the sense of touch on the left side of my chest. And… since then, I haven’t been able to stand the smell or the sight of cooked meat, let alone eat it- it’s the same smell of my own flesh, burning beyond recognition. Most of the time it was covered by the smell of medication and disinfectant, but… it was there for a good while. I can't smell it without panicking.” Migs slumped in the chair. He was drenched in sweat, his breath heavy and ineffective- something was squeezing his lungs, he couldn’t inhale properly. His head swam. He could hear them talk, jeer, there could be another kick at any moment-

Din stood and closed in, _very_ slowly. “Breathe, Mayfeld. Listen to my voice. You need to breathe.” His tone was calm and collected. “Mayfeld, you’re panicking. You’re safe now. Listen to me- breathe, in… out… in… out… like so. Keep doing that. You’re safe.”

It took a while, but he did calm down eventually, much to Din’s relief. He was all too familiar with the effects of panic on traumatised individuals- many of the Foundlings were.

“Fuck” Mayfeld said, his voice hoarse. Wordlessly, Din gave him is water canteen, and Migs gulped down the liquid as if he had been dying of thirst. It had a vague metallic taste, but it soothed his raw throat. He coughed. “Sorry about that. It’s been years and it still affects me. Still have nightmares about it, and flashbacks. The smell of meat…” he rasped with a shiver, before taking another swig.

“Don’t worry. If you weren’t affected by such an experience, I would be seriously concerned about your sanity” commented Din, putting a soothing hand over his shoulder. Either Mayfeld was the best actor in the Galaxy, or the story was actually true, thought Din. 

“I don’t even know why I told you with this much detail” grimaced Mayfeld. “I know you don’t trust me or care about me. We’re not friends. I tried to double cross you once and then- that whole mess on Morak” he said, gesturing vaguely and avoiding to directly mention the nature of said mess.

Din considered for a moment. Why, indeed.

 _He said it’s because you know how things are when it gets personal,_ had reported Cara. Maybe that was why- Din knew indeed how things are when it gets personal, personal in the sense that someone you love is threatened or hurt.

_Moff Gideon, you have something I want. You may think you have some idea what you're in possession of, but you do not. Soon, he will be back with me. He means more to me than you will ever know._

“Because someone I deeply cared for was taken from me” he said, softly. “You know that Moff Gideon took my child. I lost my entire tribe, too. Deep down you must have thought that I would understand, maybe you weren’t even aware of it, but you did.”

Migs stared at him. “Yes. Stars help me” he whispered.

Another moment of silence, then Migs took a deep breath. “The names on the list. There’s the officer, I showed you that name already. The other eight… these five are the ones who beat me in the kitchen- this one, Kann Viggan, is the one who physically poured the oil on me” he explained, pointing at the first group of names. “These three are the ones who assaulted Irian, and Ien Vert is the one who held the knife. And Hess… well, I don’t have to explain that to you.”

Din nodded, then a thought struck him. “Mayfeld… Irian… where is he now? Did he survive his injuries?”

A shiver went through Migs. “Yes. But he died on Burning Konn. We probably got sent there on purpose. We were reassigned to a new division. Because we… because of what we were.”

So… not only Migs had gone through the trauma of torture _and_ seen his beloved, his _riduur,_ go through that as well, but his _riduur_ was dead. Expressly sent to Burnin Konn to die. In Din’s opinion, revenge was too little of a word- he had a _riduur_ now, he was _tome_ , and the thought of anything of the sort happening to Cobb, or even worse, Grogu, was… no.

“Is there one in particular you want to go after first?” he asked. Migs looked at him, uncomprehending. “We’ll have to start somewhere” he explained with a shrug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus christ this story is like giving birth. I am _agonizing_ over details because I don't want to portray PTSD wrong or in a callous or ignorant manner. I've been scouring the internet for descriptions of the aftermaths of panic attacks and flashbacks, with no result whatsoever. gnnn. 
> 
> also, I'm sorry Migs. I'm really sorry, I promise I'll make it up to you!
> 
> ALSO, before I forget AGAIN: the title of the chapter is still taken from the 5th chapter of Dante's inferno, and the three verses immediately follow the ones I used in the previous chapter. the next chapter will have the last three verses of the passage. the meaning is the following: Love, that doesn't allow anyone who is loved not to love back, made me love this one so much, that as you can see it still hasn't left me.


	3. Interlude. Burning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The world ceased existing, everything that was outside the confines of the sleeping pod didn’t matter anymore, everything was burning- dimly, he wished he could be suspended in this moment forever, the past forgotten, the future unimportant._

“It’s him, then?”

“Yes. He’s a bit changed, but… yeah. It’s him.”

Migs nestled deeper into the recesses of the booth, lowering his hooded and cowled face over the mouth of his tankard. It had been surprisingly difficult to find them: old Imperial records were often difficult to access, when they hadn’t been destroyed outright. Another difficulty was that they hadn’t been important people in the Old Empire- they were just soldiers and low-level officers. Hiding for them was easy as long as they kept a low profile- there was no bounty on them, and thus no one was actively looking for them, or taking notice of them. Simply put: nobody cared about them.

Mando was indeed the best hunter in the galaxy, he thought. He had managed to conjure up the whereabouts of them in less than a month, it was downright miraculous. Unfortunately, eight of them were dead already and forever beyond his grasp. The one they had found, though… Migs would happily forego all the others, just for the possibility to get his hands on _him_. It was all. His. Damn. Fault.

They had traced Kuna Russ to this shoddy cantina in a bad region of Tammuz-an, and for all intents and purposes, he completely looked the part of the jovial tavernkeeper. Made sense, he was used to giving orders in the Army, he would want to own his business. He wasn’t doing too bad, apparently: the cantina wasn’t very fancy, but it had a constant clientele of artisans and small shop owners who wanted to spend a relaxing evening. Russ had adopted a new name, Marro Olleni, and was a bit different than how Migs remembered him: he was a bit fatter, his black hair was receding and greying, and he had grown a thick salt-and-pepper moustache. It was him, though. The hair was still styled in the proper military manner, and he still walked with the typical military marching gait that all officers seemed to share.

Migs felt sick with anxiety and hatred. The source of all his troubles was there, a scant few metres from him, completely unsuspecting. He had found him, after seven years. He wanted him dead with an intensity that scared him. It was such a seductive idea… it would have been easy. Disgustingly so. He had killed before- from afar, hidden in trees and in towers and other high places. He almost felt his arms curl around the familiar weight of his rifle- how easy, it would be. Just a little movement of his finger, the tiniest effort. Or even better, he could torment him for hours on end. He could shoot him in the legs, and leave him there, taking slow shots that would creep closer and closer to him. To hear him beg for mercy while he crawled, trying to get away from the approaching promise of death. Maker… he had never been a bloodthirsty man. He wasn’t a savage: he didn’t like to inflict pain- he had gone into sniping because of how clean it was. Nothing personal. One shot, from afar, no needless suffering. And yet, now he didn’t want this man dead, he wanted him to die, slowly, suffering like and more he had. He hated it. Was he becoming like his tormentors? Was he becoming a monster? His brain took this as its cue to launch a panic attack, the traitor. He felt his stomach knot and his mouth filling with saliva, a sign that he was about to vomit, and his heart was racing. He was sweating bullets, and his breath was quickly getting laboured. Mando leaned forward.

“Migs” he whispered, urgently. “You are about to give in to panic. Listen to me. Breathe. In… out. In… out. Give me your hand- keep breathing!” Migs did as he was told, as Mando grabbed his hand and positioned his index and thumb on either side of his wrist, in the space between the bones. He pinched, hard, and Migs flinched- but he kept breathing. It wasn’t the first time that Mando had used that technique to stave off nausea, both on Migs and on himself, and damn, it worked. The sharp pain completely overrode the signals from the stomach, and allowed Migs to focus on bringing his riotous breath back under control. After five minutes or so, he started feeling better.

They left not too long after, and went back to the Mudhorn, Mando’s ship. Migs crashed down on a sleeping pod, feeling completely exhausted- anxiety had an extremely high calory demand, and tended to close his stomach, leaving him with precious little energy to spare. He had been feeling anxious to the point of panic since the moment they had finally located Russ, at the beginning of the week.

Mando stared at him- his expression was unreadable, of course, thanks to that impenetrable helmet of his. “So… what’s the plan, now?”

"That’s a good question” muttered Migs. “I… I don’t know what I want to do. I need some time to think. I’m not even sure that I want to kill him.”

Mando stared. “You had one month to think about what you would do.” Despite the fact that his voice was filtered by the helmet, the tone was unmistakably flat- he wasn’t happy.

Migs pulled himself up. “Yeah, and so what?” he replied, somewhat curtly. The stress of the last month was starting to catch up- especially the stress of the last week. The constant undercurrent of panic, the shock of actually finding himself almost face to face with Russ, and now Mando trying to rush him into action- it was all adding up.

“I agreed to help you out of a sense of duty, Mayfeld. I have been away from home for _a month_ , now- that wasn’t your fault, so I won’t hold it against you. But it’s a long time to be away, and now that we have your target, I want to be done with it. I suggest you decide on a line of action quickly, before I decide that I don’t want to help you anymore.” Mando crossed his arms.

"I thought that you Mandos always stuck to your word, no matter what” spat back Migs.

“We do, if it doesn’t conflict with pre-existing oaths or duties” replied Mando, coolly. “Don’t make me choose between you and Cobb, Mayfeld. I would not choose you, and you probably damn well know that.”

“I liked you better on the Bothan Five” growled Migs, feeling angry- at himself, because Mando was right, and at Mando because damn, why did he have to be right?

“When I had less scruples?”

“When you only cared about doing your job as your client wanted!” that pent up frustration had to go somewhere- specifically, in a sudden punch on the sleeping pod wall. “Kriff!” he yelped as a sharp stab of pain shot up his hand- he had hit the junction between two panels, and he had cut his knuckles on the slightly risen and sharp edge of one of the panels. He grimaced, examining the wound- it was just a scratch, but it was bleeding. “Kriff” he muttered, scooting down on the sleeping mat in order to raise and go grab some disinfectant, but Mando didn’t budge from his place, obstructing the passage. He stood there with arms crossed and his legs slightly open, the very image of an immovable object waiting for the unstoppable force. For a moment, Migs thought about trying to force his way through, but he abandoned the idea almost immediately: he remembered all too well the last time he had gone toe to toe with him, and he didn’t wish for a repeat of the experience. He definitely wasn’t the unstoppable force that could face the kriffing juggernaut that was Mando.

“Mando, let me through” he said through gritted teeth.

“What’s your problem?” challenged him Mando. “I thought that you had a plan. This is not the kind of operation that you just throw yourself into, with no plan or forethought. You had seven fucking years to think of what you’d do to him and to decide whether you’d kill him or not, and an entire month to come up with a plan- this is dangerous, it could compromise our cover.”

Migs felt his temper rise. “I don’t need a Vengeance 101 course from you, Mando. Let me through.”

“Not until you give me an answer.”

Migs inhaled, deeply, and squeezed his eyes shut. His hand throbbed painfully and this was just too much. He stepped up to Mando, nose to helmet.

“You wanna know what’s my problem? All right then, you fucking scrupled busybody. I’ll tell you what my fucking problem is!” Migs’ temper ignited, and he was shouting now. “My kriffin’ problem is that I want him _to die_. I want to get my hands around his neck and see him die knowing why he’s dying, that’s what I want! I want him to die and I want to make him suffer every single second of it!”

“I want him as broken and beaten as we were. And that’s exactly my kriffing problem, Mando- I’m not a kriffin’ assassin, or a sadist! I was the one who insisted we didn’t kill you on the Bothan 5! Malk wanted you kriffing dead, but I can’t do that! I can’t just kill and torture him. It happened to me. It happened to Irian and I can’t just fucking do it because it’s just too horrible! And yet I want to do it and I am a fucking monster exactly like _them_ , that’s my fucking problem!” he smashed his closed fists on Mando’s cuirass- crap, that was a mistake: pain shot again through his hand, and he groaned as he grabbed it with the other, grimacing. His eyes stung.

“And you- you stand there fucking judging me, because you are all so fucking perfect and honourable and just don’t have any doubts and you just kriffing threw away your ever important Creed for your son, and I can’t even go through with all this” he added, gritting his teeth as he massaged his injured hand.

“Kriff. Damn. Fuck. Shit. Fuck this. Fuck all of this. FUCK THIS DAMN SHIT!” he wanted to kick and scream and just give in to rage.

“Fuck this” he growled, and tried to push Mando aside- the man didn’t budge. Of fucking course. “Let me through, Mando. I’m going. I’ll be out of your hair, happy? Go back to your husband or tribe or whatever, go and live your life and forget about this. I’ll give you your pay and you can go on your merry way.” 

He expected Mando to acquiesce, to bolt to his riduur or however he called his husband. But of course, he didn’t. Of course. He was the honourable Mando who didn’t kill the enemies who double crossed him or even the guy who kidnapped his child. He cocked his head to the side.

“That’s a lot to carry around” he observed, quietly.

Migs sighed, frustratedly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “No shit, Mando.” He regretted his explosion- he felt raw, exposed. Tired. Even his anger was now spent. Now Mando just knew the depth of his… cowardice? Was it cowardice? “Just… forget about it, ok? I… I shouldn’t have screamed like that. I… I’ll just go. I can take it from here. You go back to your husband. Forget about all this mess.” He turned and climbed into the sleeping pod, starting to rummage for his backpack. He didn’t have much to take with him anyway. 

Again, Mando didn’t move.

“How long has it been, since someone has taken care of you?”

The question was strange enough to give him pause. “What do you mean, taken care of me?” he asked, kneeling on the mat to face Mando.

“How long has it been, since… since you have shared your burden with someone?” he explained, choosing his words carefully. “Since someone has listened to you or given you relief?”

“I…” Migs frowned. He had had some one night stands of course- but… “Well, not since… not since Burnin Konn. Why are you asking?"

There was a moment of silence, and Mando cocked his helmeted head to the side. “I could… help. Give you some relief, that is.” 

Migs stared. “I thought you were married” he said. Surely Mando couldn’t be offering-

“I am. I am not offering you what I give to Cobb- he is my _riduur_. My heart is his, and he knows my soul” he explained, matter-of-factly. “I cannot and will not offer that to you. To you, I offer friendship and human warmth- I wouldn’t offer it in any other situation. Soldier’s comfort, if you will. It might not ease the burden you carry, but it might give you some relief.” Mando shrugged.

“I… I don’t know. It’s… it’s been a long time. I don’t even know that it would be right, to… you know. With you.”

“It’s up to you to decide- but I will make it good for you” promised Mando, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. Migs sighed, deeply- it was so, so tempting… some human touch, after such a long time… he could accept some simple amicable comfort. He wouldn’t have been able to accept anything more than that- he wasn’t interested in Mando. He was still grieving Irian too much to be able to accept anything more.

“Why?”

“Because you are distraught. Because I know how it is, to go without human contact for a very long time- even though, you probably didn’t go without for as long as I did. But you are suffering and I can do something about it.”

Here he was again with his hero complex, thought Migs. But this time, Migs would be the one to benefit from it, so… why not?

“I… all right, then. How do you want to do this?” he asked, as Mando started removing his armour, and piling it up ordinately on the floor. He followed a precise sequence, noticed Migs, starting from the bottom and working his way up.

“I will put a blindfold on you” he replied, not unkindly. “I know that you have seen my face already, but...”

“I know, I know. Don’t worry about it.” No sense in making a fuss. In another universe, in another story, maybe he would have cared, maybe he would have fallen in love with Brown Eyes. But here and now, he didn’t care.

“Thank you.” Mando finished removing pauldrons (still keeping the helmet on), and then crawled into the sleeping pod, laying on Migs’ side. He put an ungloved hand on Migs’ face, gently caressing his cheekbone with a thumb- his hand was so warm, and the sharpshooter found himself leaning into the touch with a sigh. The hand started to roam, caressing, massaging, thumbing his clothes: it went down, started to play with the hem of the shirt, and gently lifted it, exposing Migs’ chest. Mando paused for a moment.

“This scar… so, this is where they…”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t think that it would be this big. Will it hurt, if I touch it?”

Migs looked down, at the left side of his chest. He hadn’t even thought about it, but it made sense that Mando would ask. It was an ugly, gnarly, vaguely rectangular mess of discoloured and wrinkled skin and scar tissue, that went vertically all the way from his shoulder to his leg, narrowly missing his genitals, extended sideways from the side of his ribcage to his median line, and covered a good part of his bicep as well. The nipple was gone, too. Something that ugly was bound to raise questions. He shrugged.

“Well, no. But it won’t do much else, either- there’s lots of nerve damage. I’m completely numb in this area” he explained, tracing a rough circle that encompassed most of the left side of his torso, from the clavicle to the hipbone and from the sternum to the side of his ribs. “This part here, and down here it’s a bit more sensitive, but not by much. I can feel some pressure, but nothing else” he added, pointing to his bicep and shoulder and then to his groin and leg. “I know it’s really disgusting. If it bothers you, I can keep clothes on.”

“It’s not disgusting” said Mando, softly, putting a hand over Migs’ left pectoral. “I just don’t want to hurt you.” He turned to a side compartment and extracted a long strip of cloth and a jar of lube. He tossed the strip to Migs. “Blindfold yourself.”

It was incredible how removing one of his senses from the equation made everything different. He found himself straining his ears for the sound of discarded clothes, and his skin prickled at the anticipation of touch. His heart gave a lurch when he heard the soft thunk of the helmet being set down along with the rest. The thin mat shifted when Mando moved on it, and Migs couldn’t help but gasp when Mando climbed on top of him, pushing him back on the mat and kissing him greedily, pinning his wrists to the side of his head. His naked body was feverishly hot, like a piece of iron just taken out of a furnace.

“Relax. I’ll take care of you.”

Migs melted under his touch, as those skilled hands quickly make short work of his clothes, and soon they were both naked. Maker, it had been such a long time, he thought, as Mando lavished his neck with kisses and attentions, starting to go down on the right side of his body. His hands seemed to be everywhere.

With no warning, Migs felt his cock being enveloped by a searing, blinding wet heat- stars above, Mando had taken him in his mouth, and started doing some unspeakably dirty things to his cock. He licked the whole length, fondled his balls and took them _both_ in his mouth and sucked on them, licked and sucked on his taint and swallowed him _whole_ , used his tongue on his tip… He arched back, groaning, loosing himself in that sensation, in that heat that seemed to comprise his whole world now.

With one long, last lick Mando let go of his cock, and the lips started roaming on his body again. He felt a sensation of pressure on his groin. It was on the left side.

“Can I touch the scar?”

_Fuck._

The idea of Mando placing his hands and mouth on it felt so electrifying that he could almost feel a ghost of sensation on his numb, ravaged skin. Almost.

“Tell me… tell me everything you do when you touch it” he pleaded. “I can’t feel anything or see you, so you’ll have to tell me.”

Mando inhaled sharply at that. “As you wish.”

There was again a sensation of pressure against his groin. “I’m kissing you right now” whispered Mando. “Your skin feels a bit different here, more stretched.” A pause, and there was again a sensation of pressure on a wider area. “It tastes the same, though. Your musk is a bit less intense… no matter, I am going to explore it all.” The pressure moved upward, and it disappeared when it entered the area where his nerves had been completely destroyed. “I am kissing each of your ribs… and I’m tracing the space between them with my tongue… exactly like I did on the other side. Can you imagine that, Migs?”

“Yes” breathed Migs. Stars, he _could_ imagine it- he could imagine the warm breath on his skin, the wet hotness of the tongue, the soft touch of the lips. He entangled his fingers in Mando’s hair, allowing himself only the smallest sense of guilt and grief- guilt, over the fact that he was having sex with someone else than Irian, and grief, that this wasn’t happening with Irian and wouldn’t happen with him ever again.

“I would love to nip and suck at your skin, but it feels so fragile and thin- like the wings of a butterfly. I don’t want to break it. It’s not ugly. It just needs some extra care… I’ll just place a kiss where your nipple was now” he whispered, and Migs shivered. He used to be so sensitive in that area, and just imagining was enough to send a jolt to his groin. This was something completely new, and even if there was a distinct lack of tactile sensations, the description was more than enough to keep his body and mind interested.

Mando scooted up, and took his sweet time to kiss him thoroughly. “Want me to take you?”

“Yes… yes” panted Migs. 

Mando parted from him with another kiss: Migs heard the clinking noise of the lube jar opening.

“Do you have any preferences about position?”

“I… no, not really” shrugged Migs. He had let himself being lead so far and he hadn’t any intention of changing it- he didn’t want to think.

“All right. Turn on the side?”

Migs complied, and Mando spooned him, propping himself on his elbow: he closed his hand, now slick with lube, around his cock, and pried his knee between Migs’, gently opening his legs and reaching further down with his hand. Migs moaned when those fingers reached his hole and breached it, gently.

“Shhh… I’ve got you. Relax.”

Mando was gentle, almost unbearably so. It was impossible not to be reminded of Irian, but it was impossible to delude himself into thinking that this was happening with him- it was just too different. Mando was muscled and strong, powerful and still like a great boulder: Irian had been thin and whippy, burning with an intensity that left him always breathless. His fingers were carding a mop of wild brown curls instead of a shock of short and straight blond hair, and the face buried in his neck was different.

Mando worked him open, and then was pushing in and _in_ , and then his hips were flush with Migs’ ass. Thrusts started slow, giving Migs time to adjust, and increased gradually the depth and the speed. Suddenly, as if he felt that it wasn’t enough, he passed an arm under Migs’ armpits and around his chests, pulling them both up on their knees: in that position, he was hitting Migs’ sweet spot with every thrust, and any spark of rationality that the sharpshooter might have left died completely.

He was there, laid open and bare and impaled on Mando, completely impotent, screaming his throat raw as the other man grabbed his cock and started pumping him. Every stroke was feeding the fire that licked in his veins- it had smouldered under the ash for a long time, and now it was coming to life with a violence and a speed that he wouldn’t have thought possible. The world ceased existing, everything that was outside the confines of the sleeping pod didn’t matter anymore, everything was burning- dimly, he wished he could be suspended in this moment forever, the past forgotten, the future unimportant. His orgasm was building, coiling tightly in his balls like a snake, ready to spring and strike, a heat rising and rising…

“Come on, Migs… let yourself go” murmured Mando, as if he could feel the shock trembling under his skin, waiting to be released. Maybe he could. 

A great shudder went through Migs, and stars, he _came_. Mando’s offer of tender friendship and the fact that he hadn’t been touched in a long, long time, all contributed to a mind- shattering orgasm that seemed to never end, even if in reality it couldn’t have lasted longer than thirty, maybe forty seconds. His mind went completely blank, and it felt like being displaced from a powerful explosion- falling and soaring at the same time, being moved by an irresistible shockwave. He arched back, tensing every muscle as he leaned on Mando, leaning for once on a strength that wasn’t his own.

“Fuck… you are coming so hard…” groaned Mando, leaning his forehead on Migs’ shoulder, and his pushes became erratic- one last push, a couple of broken curses, and he came, too: for Migs, feeling him pulse inside his own body was the coup de grace, and he moaned as he rode the tail end of his orgasm even higher.

Migs was completely spent and dazed, and collapsed against Mando’s strong body- he held him, lowering him gently onto the mat. They were both drenched with sweat. The fiery pleasure he had just experienced had consumed everything, every last ounce of energy, of anxiety and fear- all gone. For the moment, at least. Thinking was out of the question, let alone moving. He didn’t react when Mando slipped out of him, nor when a cool, wet rag was passed on his body- by the time Mando wrapped him gently in a blanket and removed his blindfold after having put his helmet back on, he was already asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Formatting will be the death of me. 
> 
> also... too much smut? maybe? or maybe not?

**Author's Note:**

> Holy shit. what have I done. 
> 
> please comment and tell me that you like this monster I have created... xD 
> 
> Side note: the title for this chapter is taken from the Divina commedia, 5th chapter of the inferno. it means "love, that stealthily grasps the gentle/noble heart, took the beautiful person of him that was taken from me, and the way still offends me".


End file.
